


Driven Women

by XAJMoretBailly



Category: K-pop, Sex and the City (TV), 미남이시네요 | You're Beautiful
Genre: Career Women, Endurance riding, Feminist fiction, Gen, Strong Women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XAJMoretBailly/pseuds/XAJMoretBailly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scandalous? Maybe they are. Ambitious? Certainly. Fun? Absolutely. </p>
<p>This book is not for the faint of heart: its heroines are true feminists, free-spirited, forward-thinking, modern women who are not afraid to go against social and moral conventions to get what they want – whether it is a career, a man or a family. </p>
<p>When a lion-headed logo starts finding its way in Xavière, Galatea and Lena’s lives, it marks the beginning of a journey through which the three friends will discover what the notion of accomplishment truly means to each of them. </p>
<p>From a castle in France to the deserts of Dubai, from the arrogant Silicon Valley to distinguished Stockholm, from a pop concert in Seoul to a white-and-blue villa in Greece, the adventures of the three friends take us from family mystery, to love affairs and professional triumph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Modern women on a retro weekend

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by X. A. J. Morêt-Bailly  
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.  
   
Chapter 1.  
Modern women on a retro weekend

"That’s what it meant to be thirty, a made woman. She would forever be a woman who cannot dance, a woman who only had one love in her life, a woman who had not canoed down the canyons of Colorado or hiked through the plateaus of Tibet. These thirty years, they were not only a past she dragged behind herself, they had settled all around her, in her, they were her present, her future, they were the substance she was made of. No heroism, no absurdity would change anything to that. Of course, she had plenty of time before her death to learn Russian, read Dante, see Bruges and Constantinople; she could still throw here and there in her life some unforeseen incidents, some new talents; but it would nevertheless remain until the end this life and not another; and her life was indistinguishable from herself."  
"How weird, I have no recollection at all of this paragraph," Xavière thought as she turned off her iPad. Out of the various novels of Simone de Beauvoir she’d read as a student, She came to stay was not her favorite, but since its heroin was her namesake and the reason why her mother had chosen to name her Xavière, she’d believed she remembered it fairly accurately. But today, these particular words sounded new, and strong. "Probably because I resembled Xavière more than Françoise the last time I read this book... But heck, I don’t know if I agree with her!" she mumbled, while around her the other passengers of the plane were busily getting ready to exit. The San Francisco-Paris was nearly an hour late that day and everyone was eager to finally evacuate the sweltering cabin. With the precise and efficient gestures of the seasoned traveler who’s accumulated miles per million on her frequent flyer account, Xavière closed her computer bag, pulled her Tumi out of the luggage compartment, and followed the stream of passengers toward the exit. The familiar and vaguely nauseating smell of the terminal – Roissy airport, a poem in and by itself - immediately filled her nostrils and set in her throat. "Holidays!" she thought excitedly, a bright blond star in the middle of the grey crowd.  
Meanwhile, in another part of this same huge airport, Lena had the same look of joyful anticipation on her face as she waited for her suitcase by the baggage carousel. The little Swede, cellphone to her ear and oversized sunglasses in hand, was wriggling to adjust an outfit that could best be described as sophisticated and complicated, while keeping an eye on the rolling belt that was disgorging a stream of luggage of varied dimensions and colors. "Här! Här kommer min väska!" she exclaimed as the largest and most conspicuous suitcase imaginable made its appearance. Immediately, the man in an elegant suit behind which she had strategically positioned herself grabbed the bag and handed it to her in one fluid motion. "Tack ska du ha!" she thanked him with a nod and a smile, noting that he was not as handsome on his front side as he’d seemed from behind. No matter: Xavière and Galatea must already be waiting for her outside, it was time for her to be on her way.  
Once outside, she hesitated a moment, then noticed a bright red Mini Sport - this could only be Galatea’s! Just as she was about to reach the vehicle, a will o’ the wisp with a tuft of jet black hair jumped out of it and threw herself into the arms of a tall blonde in jeans and a navy blue peacoat: "Xavière hiii!!!" "Galatea, haaa!!!" "I come at the wrong time, it seems!" Lena commented, planting herself dramatically on one leg, arms crossed and a falsely sulky pout on her face. "Nooo" exclaimed Galatea with contagious exuberance, "On the contrary! Look at this incredible coincidence! We are all three in the same place at the same time! Finally!" "A coincidence all the more remarkable that Lena and I were both more than one hour late, and you were supposed to pick us up punctually..." Xavière observed wryly. "Yeah, look how everything just falls into place, all by itself! Come on, let’s get going, girls – La Guerche is awaiting us!"  
From Roissy Airport to the castle of La Guerche, in the French region of Indre-et-Loire, Google Maps tells us that exactly 363 km must be traveled to the south-west, through the fair cities of Paris, Orleans and Tours, driving successively along monotonous residential suburbs, through the vast cultivated plains of the Beauce region, and finally through an increasingly forested, hilly and picturesque countryside. So much so that the traveler is gradually prepared for what awaits him when finally, coming out of a turn, the village of La Guerche and its castle present themselves to his eyes. In the present case, the incrementally dramatic landscape was naturally accompanied, or exacerbated, by the palpable excitement bubbling in the red Mini. The three friends had not seen each other for nearly a year, and happily anticipated a weekend of relaxation and partying with friends:  
"So tell me, girls, do you have any idea how many people there will be?" asked Lena, for whom this "weekend Guerchois" was a first.  
"The latest I heard from Bénigne, he thought there would be about fourty of us." Xavière said. "It’s a good number: when we’re too many there is not enough time to really talk with everyone, but you need a group of a certain size to have a good party, especially given the size of the castle."  
"Fourty people? Wow. Seriously, this whole thing is crazy - a nobleman, or heir of a nobleman, who invites all his friends and their friends to party in his castle, twice a year! I still can not believe it. No: I think I'll believe it when I see it with my own eyes..."  
"Well then, get ready to be blown away!" Galatea laughed. "It’s the miraculous outcome of the fortuitous meeting of an open-minded noblewoman and a leftist hippie in the seventies... Their children could only be generous, fun and party-loving, I guess. Anyway, Bénigne is for sure!"  
"Oh yes, generous... especially when it comes to pleasing girls!" Xavière added, laughing. "Speaking of which, my dear Galatea, would you perhaps have one or two juicy stories to share with us? How are the Parisian men this year? My life as a respectable woman and mother of one is desperately monotonous right now... Distract me a little!"  
"What? And why is that? The Silicon Valley is not rich enough in golden boys to distract the beautiful Xavière from her routine? And among all these French expatriate dads you meet at your daughter’s super-posh international school, there is no one that makes your heart beat a little faster?" Galatea answered without missing a beat. "I mean, my stories with my colleagues and business guys, you know them already... And my official is the same as always, loving as always, the perfect son-in-law as always, and just as annoying as always - so nothing new on this side of the earth, I’m afraid."  
"Don’t worry, girls, I have a whole list of prospects to discuss with you!" Lena chipped in triumphantly. "All of them blonde, all of them handsome, all of them purebred Stockholmers - and all of them, of course, sons of very good families! In other words, all candidates to be the man of my life and future baby daddy!"  
Galatea and Xavière exchanged a glance and in the same breath answered: "Yeah, what's new?"  
*****  
On this beautiful Friday of September, the road was clear and the kilometers sped by quickly, so that it was still daylight when the time came to leave the highway and get onto smaller country roads. And the sky was just taking those sweet shades of orange and pink announcing sunset when the castle suddenly stood before the small car, grand and modest at the same time in its attire of light gray stone. The castle of La Guerche as it stands today, as many old buildings in France, is the result of a multitude of successive modifications, repairs, restorations, reconstructions and enlargements. Providing a coherent description of this site is therefore not an easy thing: come from the west, where the road crosses the river Creuse, and the facade of the castle bordering the river will appear as obviously medieval with its tall corner towers, pointed turrets, vertical walls, stern windows and rectangular symmetry. If however, as our friends, you arrive to the castle from the east through the village, crossing a gate flanked with modest guard towers and driving through a shaded park, it’s a courtyard of Renaissance style that welcomes you: L-shaped building with a large welcoming porch, gravel courtyard in the center of which a stone fountain renders a discreet homage to Alpheus and Arethusa, tall windows in majesty. Above the main entrance, two niches have been dug to accommodate small statues of Joan of Arc and Jeanne Hachette. The overall feel is quietly pleasant and harmonious, devoid of the defensive and threatening dimension that characterizes the riverside façade.  
"Ta daaa!" Xavière exclaimed as she jumped out of the car. "What do you think, dear Lena? Isn’t the decor up to your grandest dreams?"  
"I don’t know what decor means, but I'm sure it’s the case..." Lena said, looking up as her mouth was taking the shape of an O. Her eyes and mouth widened even further when their host, Bénigne, came out to greet them. Tall, a little lanky, with blue eyes, messy light brown hair and a big mouth with an irresistibly crooked smile, Bénigne was the very image of the nice unpretentious guy. The kind of person who loves everyone, so that everyone can not help but love him in return. "Men... Han är visst inte alls ful... He is not bad-looking at all..." Lena muttered under her breath.  
"Hey, hi, you must be Lena? Welcome to the castle of La Guerche! Xavière, Galatea, please show her the way. Hurry up, most people have already arrived! Go pick your mattress and put your stuff away, then come back downstairs, the visit is starting soon."  
"Every time we are treated to a guided tour," Galatea slipped to Lena. "What's nice is that it is just as interesting the second or third time than the first, as Bénigne’s cousin is an inexhaustible well of stories... plus you get to know everyone at once!"  
A small but lively group had already gathered at the foot of the grand staircase of the square tower when the girls came to join. Silence fell as a very tall young man with ruffled hair and a protruding Adam's apple, stationing himself on the first step, took a deep breath and, with the characteristic eloquence of the seasoned guide and passionate historian he was, began his presentation of the castle: "When André Villequier, direct vassal of Charles VII, began building the castle of La Guerche in 1450, the Hundred Years War had just finished. To understand the architecture of the gatehouse, towards which we will now start walking, you must understand that the castle is built on the banks of the river Creuse, a strategic position: the Creuse was indeed the boundary between the Capetians and Plantagenets during the Hundred Years War. But it is also a border between the regions of Poitiers and Tours, and the Touraine region was richer than the Poitou region on the other side. As a consequence, the royal salt tax was much higher in Touraine than in Poitou, fueling traffic on the river. The castle’s defensive vocation of border control reads clearly on the river side facade: look at those arrow slits, those canon ports, those machicolations, and of course the drawbridge..."  
During this speech, the small group had gradually moved from the square tower (center point of the house as it gives access to the kitchen, the lounges and the grand staircase leading to the bedrooms and attics) to the gatehouse. The newcomers, those who for the first time had been invited by Bénigne, one of his cousins, or by a participant in a previous weekend, walked at the front with the concentrated and vaguely stunned expression of victims of some violent time shock - really, what a contrast to the city life they had left behind only this morning! At the back, the regulars quietly greeted each other: Xavière and Galatea happily reacquainted themselves with this small group bound by the unique complicity these "weekends Guerchois" had created between them. There were Jerome, the globe-trotting oil engineer with his joyful enthusiasm and hilarious anecdotes; Samia, the Belgian researcher who had just returned from a mission to study malaria in Africa; Martin, the son of the Norwegian Ambassador in Paris, now a consultant for McKinsey in London - an adorable nerd with sweet dreamy eyes hidden behind steel-framed glasses; and many others.  
From the gatehouse, the small group took a narrow winding stone staircase down to the vaulted rooms of the basement: prison, artillery casemates and granaries in a row. The highlight of the visit was a room in the shape of a dome with amazing acoustics, probably meant for storing grain. While his cousin was pursuing his explanation, Bénigne had started getting impatient: "And... this is where the visit ends, and where we begin our famous game of hide and seek. Let me remind you the rules: it is forbidden to speak, the half of the group to my left will try to get out of the basement without getting caught, while the other half will try to stop them by catching them and bringing them back to the prison - 1, 2, 3, lights out!" he exclaimed triumphantly as his cousin stopped speaking. The level of excitement suddenly jumped up a few notches as everything and everyone was suddenly plunged into the deepest darkness. Hastily retreating a few steps, Lena felt the icy, damp wall against her back. Around her, she could hear murmurs, muffled laughters, rustling sounds, hesitant footsteps. The atmosphere was both icy and electric, intense. Something brushed against her bare arm and she jumped out. "Shh, it's Bénigne! Come on, the exit is this way..." A warm hand grasped hers and, with hesitant steps, she started walking, her free hand stretched forward to ward off potential obstacles. Behind her, she heard a muffled cry. In front of her to the right, a few hurried steps were followed by the sound of someone falling. The vaulted walls and massive pillars echoed, amplified or stifled sounds in strange and wonderful ways, and Lena felt herself shiver with fear and anticipation. It was difficult to judge their progress because she only had a vague idea of the exact direction of, and distance to the exit, but something was telling her that they would not reach it without encountering someone else - another prisoner if they were lucky - or a pillar, or perhaps a wall.  
Just as she was formulating this thought to herself, several things happened simultaneously: something or someone hit Bénigne hard, pulling his hand from hers and projecting him back abruptly; someone behind her panicked and let out a sharp cry; and something grazed the top of her head. "A bat!" she thought, immediately diving to the side. She stumbled and fell, scraping her arm on the wall. A moment later, silence and a relative calmness had returned, but it was obvious that danger was close - Bénigne’s silence, even though he must be close, was evidence enough. Lena silently stood up and, pressing herself against the wall, resumed her progression in what she hoped was the direction of the exit. Her scratched forearm burned a little - "Now I am the one leaving my mark on the walls of the prison," she thought, remembering the prisoners’ engravings that Bénigne’s cousin had showed them earlier. She finally reached a corner and, remembering that the stairs leading to the ground floor started near a corner in the first cave, fingered the wall forward with hope: there, a corner! And it was definitely a step she felt, there under her foot! She rushed up the stairs and, dazzled by the sudden light falling from a large chandelier, emerged in the gatehouse which a few other "prisoners" had already reached, and where a fractious and buoyant atmosphere reigned. Jerome and Xavière, who were animatedly debating the game’s various possible strategies and their respective effectiveness, interrupted themselves when they saw Lena’s disheveled look:  
"Well, it looks like the newbie encountered some difficulties along the way!" Jerome exclaimed with the cheerful frankness that characterized him.  
"She even left Bénigne behind," added Xavière. "Too bad when he’d positioned himself so strategically close to you before turning off the lights. How in the word did you manage to lose him?"  
Lena blushed a little and didn’t answer, pretending to check her scratch. Already other prisoners were emerging from the depths of the castle and rushing excitedly to share their stories. Then it was the guards’ turn, many of whom wore beautiful bumps as testimony of slightly too enthusiastic embraces with the pillars, or impromptu hugs with swift prisoners. In the end, everyone walked back to the main house. A small group gathered in the gray lounge around two guitar players, and soon scout and bawdy songs filled up the air in a joyous succession; in the next room, another group was playing pool; others, a beer in hand, had slumped in armchairs and were busy putting the world to rights. Among the latter group, too tired to really pay attention to a conversation held in a too fast and informal French, Lena was wondering where Bénigne was: he had most definitely come out of the basement towards the end, but had immediately disappeared again... Not far from her, Xavière was engaged in a fierce debate on the compared situation of women in France, Sweden and the United States: "Everyone in France think women have a better life in the Nordic countries and even the United States, but having lived there I assure you that it is not the case. The endless maternal leave in Sweden is a disaster, and as far as the USA are concerned, given the cost of daycare, lots of women stop working - or don’t have children. Frankly, from my point of view, France is really not badly off." Heated by a discussion on a topic that was dear to her, her long blond hair was flying and her blue eyes flashed. "She's really beautiful," thought Lena. She could also hear Galatea’s low laugh in the next room, where she was the center of male attention as always, as she was playing pool. "And Galatea is never short of energy, especially when there are boys around." Lena thought again, stifling a yawn.  
Standing up from her chair, she was getting ready to take leave for the night when Bénigne suddenly burst into the living room and walked straight to her. Taking her hand in his and plunging his eyes in hers, he put something in her hand and asked: "Gente damsel, you never cease to amaze me: I was told to expect a sophisticated Swede, but I believe this simple piece of jewelry belongs to a small slanted-eyed girl who arrived tonight..."  
"Uh, I am adopted from Korea, but I am indeed Swedish." Lena stammered, confused. Glancing down, she looked at the object Bénigne had dropped in her hand: "Oh, my medallion! I hadn’t realized I’d lost it! It probably came off when I fell... Oh, thank you so much!"  
"A medallion? What medallion?" asked Galatea, who was just entering the room with a swaying gait.  
"You know, my birth medallion, the one I always wear," Lena said, showing it to her.  
Galatea seized the medallion and looked at it. It was a round medal mounted on a chain, representing the profile of a gray lion’s head, circled in red against a black background. Although very special, the jewel didn’t indeed give any sense of preciousness - being painted, it was not even possible to tell what metal it was made of.  
"Hey, it's fake!" teased Xavière, who had come closer. "Plus, it doesn’t go with anything!"  
"Ugh, you don’t know nothing, dude!" Lena retorted, deadpan. "This is a super important symbol. It is the emblem of a Korean secret mafia whose members are actively tracked in Korea, even today."  
"Oh really? Then where did you get this thing from? Did you become a member at birth, and your parents sent you away to infiltrate Sweden?" Xavière quipped.  
Lena straightened herself up as tall as she could and gave her a condescending look: "Nope. But like any self-respecting mafia, they were involved in child-trafficking. Obviously."  
"In any case, to be in this condition after being worn so long, it must be famous quality." Galatea observed, pragmatic.  
"But definitely not Lena’s style." Xavière concluded laughingly. "Sorry we cheated you on the goods, dear Bénigne!" With that, Bénigne laughed, Lena blushed, and everyone decided to go to bed.  
*****  
Stereotypically, it's the crowing of a rooster that woke up the girls the next morning. Dawn, with its famously rosy fingers, was caressing the most austere façade of the castle, on the river side, on which the girls’ bedroom windows opened. This room alone, like most rooms of the castle, was large enough to hold an entire standard Paris or New York apartment. The floor was covered in crimson brick, there was a huge fireplace, and the walls were thick enough to have stored enough summer heat to keep the castle warm for several more weeks. Yet, by modern standards, it was cold in the room that morning: Xavière was first to push back her blankets and run towards the only bathroom before the inevitable line started to form. Her ablutions completed, she walked down to the kitchen. Because she loved to cook, she generally enjoyed being part of the team that prepared food for everyone. The menu was simple and invariable given the volumes to prepare: pasta bolognaise or carbonara for Saturday lunchtime, quiche and salad on Saturday night, pancake brunch on Sunday morning - after which everyone was busy tidying and cleaning before getting on their way home.  
This time however, Xavière didn’t feel in the mood to stay in the kitchen, and it is above all the prospect of a large bowl of coffee that was pulling her in that direction. As she told Bénigne’s mother, who was already there: "I already feel like I spend my life cooking for Karl and my daughter at home, so enough of that! Today, I am doing something else. Let's see... Playing tennis? Trimming the chestnut trees? Snatching ivy from the facade? Chopping wood? How do you want us to make ourselves useful this time, Mrs de Crouy?"  
Bénigne’s mother was a generous woman, and insightful too: "Well Xavière, what's happening to you? This is the first time I see you not wanting to do something... You who are so determined and sure of yourself, it is not like you either to be asking me what to do."  
"Ah, it must be the crisis of the thirties, or perhaps middle-life crisis, I don’t know!" Xavière joked, sitting by the large oakwood table and setting her bowl on the rustic oilcloth. "Now, I can hardly complain: I have a nice, Brad Pitt lookalike guy, a little girl who everyone says is my spitting image, and a real career in a sexy industry. No, really nothing to complain about... and besides, I don’t really see what else I could ask for. Except perhaps more time to train my mare and compete internationally with her - but isn’t this just one of those inevitable compromises you have to make in life?"  
"What exactly have you been doing since you moved to the United States, I don’t think I know?"  
"I work in so-called venture capital. In other words, I review startups and business plans, and decide whether or not my company, General Electric, should invest in them. Then I follow-up on the investments that have been made, keeping my fingers crossed that a minimum of those ends up badly... It's pretty glamorous because it's Silicon Valley, with all its vibrancy, the feeling of being close to where innovation happens, all that. But in practice, my role is primarily that of a censor - a little bit like a bouncer at a club who decides who is admitted to the party. And the intellectual investment is fairly limited in the end. As for my real and practical impact on the world, let’s not even get there..."  
"But besides that, you have lived in Paris, Stockholm and now in San Francisco. And you have some great friends with whom you're going to spend a wonderful weekend. What could be better?" Galatea had just entered into the room and throwed her arms around Xavière’s neck, embracing her until she choked on her coffee.  
"Come on, like you don’t know my dilemma, Galatea: I have always done everything very well and everyone envies me, but I'm bored... Karl has no major fault but we mostly try to stay out of each other’s way, motherhood annoys me much more than it fulfills me, and professionally well... I'm not going to change the world, and what I do just doesn’t thrill me. It's trite, but I'm frustrated - and yet I don’t see what else I could aspire to. The only thing that really makes me vibrate is when I'm on the back of my little Sophyra for a 160km endurance race... Perhaps I am just addicted to endorphins and adrenaline?"  
Frowning and putting on a half-straight face as she sat down at the big table, Galatea said: "I think what you need is a hare: someone or something that makes you dream, motivates you and gives spice to your life - without you necessarily having to catch it. In fact, it's even better if you can’t catch it, because this way it stays fresh and magic in your mind..."  
"Ah, right there, girls, you’re going too far for me - I can not endorse prompting a woman in a relationship to fantasize about other men!" interrupted Bénigne’s mother laughingly, not really shocked though, a former flower power girl as she was. "But you know, Xavière, you don’t need an objective reason to be upset, or want more, or something else. In fact, it is probably the best motor in life. Now it just remains to define what you want, and do not have today. For example the skills to trim a chestnut tree?  
"Indeed, this is an absolute deficit in my knowledge base, which I'll try to fill today!" Xavière smiled as she finished her coffee.  
When she came out on the porch, a few rays of sunshine were just touching the fountain, over the chestnut trees that surrounded the courtyard. The day promised to be radiant, one of those autumn days that make you long for a walk in the woods with your feet shooting away dead leaves, or a trail ride on a happy horse in the cottony early morning fog. "Too bad Sophyra is far from here." Xavière thought as she lifted up her arms and stretched with a little grunt.  
*****  
While the "weekends Guerchois" organized by Bénigne and his cousins initially had for sole purpose to have a good time with friends, the concept had quickly evolved to include the completion of minor maintenance tasks. The idea had come from the guests themselves, who on one hand felt indebted to Bénigne’s family, on the other hand enjoyed the vigorous physical exercise – a rare treat for these urban intellectuals: most participants were indeed friends from grande ecole - a very French concept referring to the handful of highly selective (and usually urban) institutions that produce the elite of French engineers and managers. Xavière, Galatea and Bénigne were thus all three graduates of HEC, supposedly the best European business school; Jerome, Martin the Norwegian and several others were in turn alumni of the famous Ecole Polytechnique, known for producing the cream of engineers. Around this core, multiple free electrons had hitched on over time, friends of friends or acquaintances made through work or during an internship: thus Lena, invited by Xavière, or the Belgian Samia whom Galatea had introduced to the group the previous year. All were welcome as long as they were, as Bénigne plainly expressed it, "cool, relaxed, friendly." And you had better be when it came to sleeping on bare mattresses in rooms without heating, sharing one bathroom with fifty people, or feasting on simple dishes prepared with first price ingredients.  
Because it was fall, most of the work planned this time had to do with the park: pruning and collecting firewood, sweeping driveways, performing small masonry. All this interspersed with tennis games and a little lazing around in the sun. By mid-morning, everyone was busy: while Lena and Bénigne had teamed up for a double on the tennis court, Galatea had joined the team of tree trimmers, and dazzled every single male with her prowess as a climber - or her scathing comments. Martin, Xavière and Samia were dissipatedly and cheerfully painting the window frames of the building that once served as a stable, and was now a coach museum:  
"So Martin, still in cahoots with capitalists and dictators?" Samia asked.  
"And how about you Samia, still penniless and up to your neck in bureaucracy?" Martin retorted.  
"Now, now, children." Xavière tempered, "Tell me rather about your most recent trips. You are probably my only two friends who really know Africa, so please join forces instead of bickering... Phew, at least you two get to experience true adventure, and contribute to the advancement of the world..."  
"Yeah, right, the African adventures of a McKinsey consultant, that must be really exciting and full of adventure... not!" Samia said sarcastically.  
"Of course, not everyone can work for the eradication of malaria by dedicatedly going in the field in hope to collect firsthand data. Some of us try instead to give good advice to governments and businesses, in order to achieve sustainable economic growth, too." Martin replied somewhat learnedly.  
Xavière smiled, dipping her brush into the paint - these two would always amuse her. Both had a big heart, and each was contributing in his way to the development of Africa. But while Samia was a public health researcher intense about getting her hands dirty in order to understand populations’ real issues, including in the poorest corners of the continent, Martin, in his capacity of management consultant for one of the most prestigious firms in the world, worked mainly with high-level counterparts. The only person missing in this conversation was Jerome who, as engineer on an oil rig, spent much time along the African coast and was an endless source of colorful anecdotes.  
Suddenly, happy shouts could be heard from the tennis courts: Xavière, Samia and Martin turned around to see Bénigne and Lena with their arms up in the air, visibly elated. A second later, Bénigne had pulled Lena, who didn’t resist it much, in a tight hug - their embrace lasted just a moment longer than was necessary, and Xavière commented: "Those two are going to have fun tonight at the party..."  
As it turns out, with everyone busy as they were, the evening in question came very fast: soon it was time to put away all tools and get ready for the dance. One of the lounges, whose floor didn’t creak too badly, had been equipped with a sound system and a stroboscope to become a dance floor. In the adjacent room were several sofas and a pool table and bar. Finally, the lounge closest to the kitchen was where one could find some solid energy: savory quiches, salads, fruit and various sweet cakes were offered to the appetites of the workers now converted into party animals.  
As a significant proportion of these belonged to the old French nobility, a lot of rock was danced: Versailles-style rock n’ roll - marking the rhythm with the right hand firmly holding that of the partner, left hand behind the back, heels striking the ground - or traditional six-beat rock n’ roll as gracefully danced by Xavière. As she swirled to the beat of "Don’t stop me now" or "Love really hurts without you" – long legs molded in skinny jeans, round butt with a supple sway, thin and overly arched waist, tanned shoulders and arms with well-defined muscles, not to mention the thick ponytail waving to her every move - she was the picture of health, of energy, of a triumphantly athletic youth.  
Galatea, on the other hand, was the queen of the dance floor when Xavière no longer was - that is to say, when the good old rocks gave way to pop and dance rhythms. Not that she danced in a particularly creative, or demonstrative, or even sensual way - but there was something about her that made it impossible to any man or woman around her to look elsewhere. Was it her broad smile with bright perfectly aligned teeth, contrasting with her dark skin - a tad carnivorous, as the mischievous Xavière liked to put it, but so engaging? Or her sparkling and expressive green eyes? Or perhaps the memory of the multiple ambiguous remarks and half-subtle small jokes she couldn’t help but let out as soon as there were men around her? Whatever the reason, the lyrics of the song "Sexy, naughty, bitchy me" on which she was currently undulating fit her like a glove:  
"I pick all my skirts to be a little too sexy  
Just like all of my thoughts they always get a bit naughty  
When I'm out with my girls I always play a bit bitchy  
Can't change the way I am sexy naughty bitchy me

I'm the kind of girl that girls don't like  
I'm the kind that boys fantasize  
I'm the kind that your momma and your daddy were afraid you'd turn out to be like  
I may seem unapproachable but that's only to the boys who don't have  
The right approach or ride that makes a girl like me wanna hop in and roll

People think it's intimidating when a girl is cool with her sexuality  
I'm a 180 to the stereotype girls like staying home and being innocent

My mouth never takes a holiday  
I always shock with the things I say  
I was always the kid in school who turned up to each class about an hour late  
And when it came to the guys I'd lay, I'd always pick the ones who won’t figure out  
That I am clearly a rebel to the idea of monogamy"

When the song ended and she headed for the exit, more than one man took a step to follow her, but tonight she was ignoring them all. Bypassing the large pool table and the busy players surrounding it, she grabbed the iPhone she'd left on the fireplace’s mantelpiece and sank into a sofa. For the twentieth time that day, she opened the instant messaging application, dragging her thumb across the screen to force the update. The phone buzzed and a name appeared in bold at the top of the screen. Ah, finally! He’d answered! With the smile of a cat before which a blackbird just landed, she jumped up and went to sit outside on the porch, desert at this time. "Boy, you're hooked, hooked, hooked! As a pike!" she whispered to the night sky. Ah, the sweet thrill mixing jubilation to have reached her goal, and sexual excitement at the thought of what was to come, how nice it was! Thinking back about the frustration expressed by Xavière that morning, she reflected: "Me, my career is going nowhere and my boyfriend is a pain, which is worse, but at least I know how to cheer myself up!" She had no sooner had this thought that its subject suddenly appeared in the flesh, seemingly out of nowhere:  
"Hey, you haven’t seen Lena?"  
"No, she’s disappeared. She must be somewhere with Bénigne... I imagine the worst!" Galatea laughed. "You know her better than I do, but I thought she was rather prudent?"  
"She is, so this surprises me a bit of her. Back when we got to know each other in Sweden, she was the type to look, tease but not touch. It seems that Bénigne ticks enough boxes on her long list of the qualities of the ideal guy." Xavière giggled, dropping beside Galatea. "But what about you, what are you doing all alone in the dark? Are you moping, or day-dreaming?"  
"Neither one nor the other, my dear, I am enjoying myself! My most recent target has finally taken the first step which inevitably..."Galatea handed her phone to Xavière: "Here you go, he is not very original with his "What are you doing this weekend?" but I forgive him this time!"  
"Yes, this time - and once you’ll have "concluded", as you say, you will begin to find him tacky and will realize that he is not as smart or intellectually powerful than you thought - come on, I know the pattern! You're a female Don Juan, is all you are!" Xavière commented with the confident smirk of someone who knew what she was talking about.  
"... And I will become all lovey dovey with my official again, which is to the benefit of everyone!" Galatea added with a mischievous smile.  
"And who is he, this poor guy who has just fallen into the net of the voracious Galatea?"  
"The CEO of one of the CAC40 companies. Married with three kids, bored with his wife. I met him at a party organized by my company." Galatea worked for the French leader in nuclear energy, Avero, and at her hierarchical level it was not uncommon to be asked to fine parties gathering leaders of the French industry.  
"Classic profile for you, eh? Don’t rush it too much, enjoy it, these are the best moments!" Xavière laughed.  
"No risk that I rush it, I'm in Seoul next week to negotiate a big contract. He’ll have to marinate a bit... Ah là là, I'm quite exhilarated: this guy is really fascinating, a true big gun: smart, very smart even, with an upward-moving career, very cultured, an art collector by the way... Enough to distract me from that idiot CFO of the World Bank - a freaky thing, I swear, a lot less funny. The kind of guy who starts by very seriously offering me a job, but then decides that after all I'm cute and he’d rather go out with me. Exit the job at the World Bank, and it's just the second time this happens to me..."  
"Yes, you’d already told me, it's a shame. He still hasn’t given up, this one?"  
"Ugh, no, and I don’t dare telling him off completely. What can I do, only men of power truly attract me, and it turns out that I attract them too – that’s just the way it is. The problem is that either they fall in love with me without me being aware, or when it is reciprocal they lose all their aura as soon as they give in and fall to the level of basic guy, with the same compromises and cowardice..."  
Galatea spoke in a direct manner and without frills, but Xavière knew that her best friend suffered from the situation: while professionally she fought hard without achieving significant success, on a personal level power fell into her arms, literally - but only temporarily satisfied her, when it didn’t instead come in the way of her career goals.  
"Seoul? That's cool, have you talked to Lena about it? I don’t think she's ever traveled to Korea, but she was born there so she might be interested..."  
"No, I need to speak to her about it. We’ll have time tomorrow, on the way back. Phew, this Korean deal is a big opportunity for me, at least I hope it will be. Everything in my life is a drama right now, frankly it's ridiculous how I'm boiling internally but nothing happens. Like a pot of water with nothing else in it: I boil, but the only thing I produce is steam... With this deal, though, if - and I mean if - they give me a free hand and I succeed, I might finally have my chance to make a splash, and get noticed in a big way.  
"Well, I sincerely wish you good luck. Me, the most exciting thing that awaits me professionally in the coming weeks is a tech conference in San Diego..." Xavière sighed.  
A brief silence fell, almost immediately interrupted by the irruption of a disheveled Lena: "Hey girls, Bénigne proposes a game of "I have never", are you coming?"  
Galatea and Xavière looked at each other: "Great!" Galatea exclaimed enthusiastically, while Xavière grumbled: "Completely stupid!" but willingly stood up. When they entered the middle lounge, a small group was already sitting in a circle on the varnished wooden floor, the dim light falling from the chandelier barely illuminating their faces. The atmosphere, in short, seemed conducive to alcoholic confessions. Lena went to sit next to Bénigne and Galatea exclaimed: "Come on, guys, no need to wait any longer! Let the game begin!" And, seizing a bottle of vodka, she started filling the cups that Bénigne was passing around. When everyone was served and comfortable, Bénigne started, with a nod to Galatea: "I have never... cheated on my official boyfriend or girlfriend!" Galatea gave him a cursory glance, and emptied her glass along with Bénigne himself. Since nobody else had been drinking, she immediately went on: "I have never... kissed more than one girl or boy in the same evening!" Again, Galatea and Bénigne were the only ones to drink.  
It went otherwise, however, on the next round, when Bénigne said: "I have never... teased someone, or let someone believe I was truly interested in them, without subsequently concluding!".The atmosphere warmed up a little as several participants raised their glass. Lena was the first to drink, blushing, and immediately took over: "I have never... fantasized for months about someone without daring to take action!" "This one is for me!" Xavière announced as she finally drank. "I was the only one drinking, so it counts triple. If you don’t mind, Bénigne and Galatea, we will lower the level a notch so that everyone here can get everyone else drunk in peace, ok? So... I have never been drunk in my life!" As the smart girl had expected, she was the only one not drinking this time, and immediately went on: "I have never kept a list of criteria that my boyfriends or girlfriends must meet!" Again, many glasses went up, including Lena’s. "And finally, I have never had as first criterion on this list, the word 'rich'." This time, Lena was the only one drinking.  
"Ha, I owe you one, my friend!" she called out, her dark almond-shaped eyes crinkling in preparation for the blow she was about to inflict. "I have never... dreamed to leave job, spouse and child to live a great adventure!" Silence fell sharply as everyone realized what Lena had said. With a little embarrassed laugh, Xavière raised her glass: "All right, one on me!" she admitted before emptying it.  
*****  
Somehow, at La Guerche, Sunday morning was only the continuation of Saturday night - literally for those who, like Lena, had spent a sleepless night. Xavière, who had remained relatively sober and gone to bed several hours before dawn, got up early and, ignoring her fatigue, went running in the countryside as brunch was getting ready - what better way to recover from a night of excess than a dozen kilometers covered at an easy tempo in the cool of the early morning? She’d had time to complete her run, take a shower and eat several pancakes when Galatea finally surfaced, under the derisive cheers of the small group gathered around the large tables erected in the courtyard. "Of course not, I don’t have a hangover!" she asserted, refusing however to take off her sunglasses and chain-drinking coffee cup on coffee cup. "I just realized that it was almost time to leave!" And indeed: pancakes eaten, tables put away, floors polished and vacuumed, luggage packed - soon it was time to say goodbye to the castle and to this unforgettable weekend - as unforgettable as those who had preceded it, and as the ones who would likely follow it.  
Not for everyone though: when Xavière and Galatea came down the beautiful marble staircase, laden with their sleeping bags and suitcases, Lena, who had seemed to avoid them earlier, came to meet them: "Um, hey, girls... Would you mind it very much if I didn’t come with you for the return trip? Bénigne offered to take me to the airport, and I've already changed my flight so I can leave later..." Galatea and Xavière smiled: "Not at all... It's not like we didn’t expect it." Galatea said. "Have fun... Och var inte för snall med honom, han förtjänar en liten läxa!" added Xavière – who from a few years spent in Sweden spoke a fairly fluent Swedish -, as a discreet warning. This definitely wasn’t like Lena, who loved to take her suitors through an elaborate obstacle course... How would the kind little Swede cope with the lovely but fickle Bénigne, great lover of life, parties and girls before the Lord?  
As everyone was coming out onto the courtyard and exchanged goodbyes, promises to meet again soon and phone numbers, the silence was gradually thickening inside the castle. All around the girls, in its august and splendid majesty, the vast building seemed like it was gathering itself in anticipation of the calmer days ahead. Simultaneously, as this wonderful parenthesis of flighty playfulness was about to close, the three girls were feeling the weight of their expectations settling again on their shoulders. When they came out on the porch, they stopped for a moment and looked up at the two small white marble statues, half hidden in their alcoves, who were considering their small group with their indecipherable stare: Joan of Arc and Jeanne Hachette, the heroines. Xavière sighed, and suddenly, firmly, exclaimed: "Come on girls, we also are warriors, heroes, winners! When we come back here next spring, I bet you that we’ll have plenty to make these ladies proud of us!"


	2. A week in Seoul, a few days in San Diego

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by X. A. J. Morêt-Bailly  
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.  
   
Chapter 2.  
A week in Seoul, a few days in San Diego

The austere meeting room was buzzing with the slightly muffled murmur of conversations and the rustling of papers manipulated by the dozen attendees. The strict symmetry of the long varnished table matched the sobriety of the attire of the men sprawled in large leather chairs around it: dark suits, white shirts, discrete ties and strictly cropped hair, the impression of uniformity was striking. There were representatives of the various authorities in charge of the civil nuclear industry in South Korea, a delegation from Mongolia, and the small group of French who defended the interests of the French leader in nuclear energy, Avero.  
A member of the latter group, Galatea was the only discordant note in this group of otherwise homogeneous appearance. Despite her efforts to produce a polite and discreet façade, you couldn’t miss her. It was simple: she was the youngest, she was the only woman, and she was lively and smiling. However, although the effects of jetlag started to be felt - she had arrived in Seoul that same morning - she was completely absorbed in her work as she actively participated in the discussion, with the confidence conferred by hours of hard work spent preparing this negotiation. The stakes were high: after years spent in the shadow of the great leaders or conducting deals with only a small chance of getting through, she finally had her chance to shine at the highest level.  
A few months ago, the UAE had entered talks with South Korea regarding the construction of the first nuclear power plants in the UAE. In this context, it was expected that Korea Electric Power would provide technical support for the construction of said centrals and assume leadership of the overall project, while the French Avero would provide the fuel to the Korean group Kepco Nuclear Fuels - enriched uranium of course, as the ore itself was to be sourced in Mongolia with a consortium called MonAtom. When Galatea had been appointed to lead the negotiations, it had seemed that Avero’s chances to win the deal were low, since the French hadn’t won the main contract for the construction and management of the plants themselves. But things had suddenly changed a few weeks ago, when their main competitor on the fuel segment had suddenly been involved in a large and highly publicized bribes scandal. The practice was not uncommon for contracts of such strategic significance, but it was still necessary to remain discreet - and not get caught. At any rate, Avero was now the only bidder on that portion of the contract, and Galatea found herself at the forefront to negotiate a deal of which only she mastered all elements. Too bad only that her boss had arranged to be present as well: although his knowledge of the deal was superficial, Galatea knew that their interlocutors preferred to speak to this man of similar age and corpulence rather than to her, the too pretty, too young and too bubbly Galatea - which was frankly unnerving. She had to constantly resist the temptation to turn into a chatterbox to assert her competence and monopolize the conversation - a tendency that was only too natural to her talkative personality, and which usually got worse when she was tired as now.  
The meeting, which was only a preliminary to the actual negotiations scheduled to take place in the following days, was however going well: Avero was in a strong position, if only because they were the entity with the greatest experience of this type of contracts: complex, touching on all aspects of the nuclear value chain, and with an international dimension involving multiple partners. Moreover, as Galatea didn’t hesitate to repeat several times:  
"Due to the scandal afflicting our competitor, Avero has become the only possible counterpart for the supply of fuel, the sole company with the ability to supply the required volumes within the timeframe imposed by our Emirati partners."After a pause, she added: " And our contribution is all the most important that, as you all know, political support from the international community to this project has been obtained because the UAE have publicly promised that they will not be enriching themselves the uranium, but will source it on the international markets following a standard commercial process." The argument was well-rehearsed, its various points were repeated over and over again, so that when the meeting ended it was clear to everyone that Avero would lead the ball in the upcoming negotiations.  
The atmosphere became more cordial, and even relaxed, at the dinner that followed. The Koreans had booked a room in a restaurant - one of the best in Seoul - which served traditional Korean cuisine, called hanjeongsik, following a precise and elegant ancestral protocol. The head of the Korean delegation, an elderly man named Jun Kyung-Woo, leaned towards Galatea when everyone was seated around the completely empty table: "You will see - where there is nothing, suddenly, there will be an abundance." And indeed: instead of the sequential service practiced in Europe, the servers came together and within moments the table was loaded with an abundance of delicious-looking dishes: grilled abalone with fried gingko berries, breaded ginger duck fillets, fish dumplings topped with egg foam... Galatea didn’t know where to turn her chopsticks. As the bottles of soju came and went, while the glasses were repeatedly filled and emptied, everyone’s tongues started getting untied and the Minister of Mineral Resources and Energy of Mongolia, who was sitting across from Galatea, suddenly spit out to her:  
"Galatea, you are an impressive negotiator. But really, Avero’s strong position would not exist if our government didn’t support the provision of uranium. No uranium, no fuel, he he he…"  
Galatea hesitated: she had hoped that the Mongolian delegation would not raise this point, but it was true that the partnership between French and Mongols for the exploitation of their mineral resources had recently encountered a number of political uncertainties, to the point where she’d started collecting information about a potential alternative sourcing in Kazakhstan. If, for one reason or another, the Mongols were to withdraw now from the partnership, it would suddenly become difficult to commit to the deadlines expected by the UAE. She chose to answer with one of her usual pirouettes:  
"Come on, Mr Manlaijav, you wouldn’t want to disappoint me like that, now would you?" she asked with a mischievous smile, a twinkle in the eye. Immediately, she saw her interlocutor soften up as he entered her game:  
"Well, if it was only for you, I certainly wouldn’t. Who would want to disappoint such a charming young lady? You remind me of my daughter, her hair is just as black and shiny as yours…"  
"Oh really? She must be beautiful then, no doubt? How old is she?"  
"Probably just a little younger than you: she is twenty-six, but she’s actually celebrating her birthday three days from now, here in Seoul! Look, here is a picture of her… Her name is Sarantuyya, which means Moonshine."  
Galatea looked at the picture, where a young woman with sophisticated makeup was smiling from under a fluffy fur hat. The fur looked so soft that inevitably the eyes of the young woman, circled as they were with kohl, had a hard look to them, but the whole picture was nevertheless pleasant.  
"Why is she celebrating her birthday here, and not at home in Mongolia?"  
"Because she wants a big party, with lots of people! There will even be a concert by that famous Korean singer she likes, what’s his name again? Well, if he doesn’t cancel, that is…" the Minister added with a grin. "Anyway, you are all invited, you shoulds all come!"  
The offer was very tempting for a party girl like Galatea. She was nevertheless about to politely decline when her boss suddenly interjected:  
"But of course, we will be there, thank you so much for the invitation!"  
Galatea opened wide eyes: contrary to her, her boss really had nothing of the party animal. What was up with him? However, she started to understand where he was going when he added:  
"But you were saying that this famous singer you’ve booked for this exceptional event might not be able to make it?"  
"Um, well, it was a long shot anyway. He is kind of a superstar in Asia, and very busy. But, you know, nothing is too big for my dear Sarantuyya! I am supposed to go and pay his fee tomorrow, so I guess it will be fully confirmed then. Hopefully he will be impressed by the fact that the Ministry himself comes to meet him!"  
Galatea’s boss gave her a pointed look, observed a short pause, then replied:  
"Oh, but tomorrow is going to be so busy – you know what, I have an idea: why don’t we have Galatea go and meet him? As you just said, she is an excellent negotiator. I know for a fact that she won’t come back without having secured his participation. Right, Galatea?"  
Flabbergasted, Galatea didn’t answer immediately. The suggestion shocked her on several levels: first, because it was implicitly understood that, if the Minister accepted it, Avero would pay the artist's fee for a concert which could only be described as private - on that point, she was nonetheless appreciative of the subtlety with which her boss had brought up the offer. It was self-evident that, if Avero did such a favor to the Minister, it would not be without compensation: it would suddenly become much more difficult for M. Manlaijav not to support Avero in future negotiations. But what irked Galatea most was the position in which her boss was putting her: what, suddenly she was only good for running around Seoul to satisfy the Prince’s desires, while her boss took her place at the negotiating table? Not to mention the fact that, while she was quite prepared to negotiate a nuclear deal, she was on the contrary not all ready to do the same with a whimsical pop star!  
All eyes were on her as her response took a long time coming:  
"Well yes, of course! There is simply no better negotiator than me!" she finally belched through clenched teeth.  
"Then it's a deal!" her boss went on. "Let’s try to have you do that early tomorrow morning, so you don’t miss too much of the negotiations. So… you should probably go to bed now, so you can get to it bright and early tomorrow morning!" he added with a booming laugh.  
Galatea could not believe it: in addition to the rest, her boss had found a way to get rid of her for the rest of the evening. She knew very well what this was about: in this type of negotiation, particularly in Asia, dinner was followed by other types of entertainment. Everyone started by going to a bar for a drink and a dance, and if strippers or prostitutes came to join the party, everyone was the merrier for it - provided, however, that the company was exclusively masculine. Galatea knew that her presence was an embarrassment, an obstacle to the building of the personal relationships that eventually facilitate trade relations, but she liked to party too much to let it stop her, and had until now always been one of the last ones to go to bed - and the first one to get up the next morning, earning herself the admiration of her male colleagues for her incomparable endurance.  
But her boss was leaning once more towards her: "And you’ll make sure to buy a royal gift to the Minister’s daughter, of course. French luxury de rigueur, there must be a Chanel or Hermes store somewhere in Seoul..."  
Containing her anger, her jaws tightly clenched, Galatea nodded in assent.  
*****  
The next morning, it is a pretty wound up Galatea who presented herself at the entrance of the elegant building of Nonhyeon district which housed the famous Jang Jun-Ki’s production company. She hadn’t slept well, and to energize herself - or to calm herself down, she wasn’t sure which was her main motivation - had decided to walk the short mile that separated her hotel in the business district Cheongdam-Dong and the place of rendezvous. A bad decision, she’d quickly realized as her feet started to ache. Really, why had she chosen her most elegant suit and these heels when she could have just gone back to her hotel before going to the meeting, her mission accomplished? At least it wasn’t too hot, nor too cold - a beautiful autumn weather, but one that did not preclude the possibility of a downpour at one time or another. "With my luck these days, it will fall on me just now." she growled while scanning mobile cloud cover over her head.  
Entering the building, she walked up to the receptionist: "Hi, I am here to meet with, ahem... er, Mister... Jang Jun-Ki. Or his manager." she added in an indifferent tone. "I have an appointment." The young woman to whom she’d handed her passport looked at her with a vaguely shocked mien, picked up the phone to confirm the appointment, before mutely pointing her to the elevator. "Why in the world did she look at me like that? I can not help it if I have a little trouble with all these complicated names... I, at least, can speak English, ha!" she thought with a grimace as she waited for the elevator. On either side of the tall golden doors whose opening she was awaiting, two large cardboard dummies displayed the picture of a smiling young man holding a guitar, with several chains around his neck and way too much eyeliner. Once on the sixth floor, Galatea was showed into a large and bright office, and asked to sit in a comfortable armchair. Pulling out her phone, she started going through her emails, answering the most urgent ones, classifying the ones who didn’t call for action on her part, adding others to her to-do list. Though absorbed by this task, she was nevertheless acutely aware of time passing: it was almost time for the negotiations to resume, and she had already been waiting for nearly half an hour. Standing up, she walked around the office for a while, then decided to ask the assistant who had welcomed her how much longer she had to wait - letting out a sigh of frustration when, with an explicit movement of her hands, the assistant expressed her ignorance. Pausing, she thought for a moment. Could she possibly proceed to the payment with the assistant and ask her to get confirmation from the singer or his manager for her? Or maybe she could get her the manager’s phone number, to see if he or the so-called Jang Jun-Ki had any intention of honoring the appointment? Feverishly, she walked back and forth in the corridor a few times under the perplexed gaze of the assistant, weighing her options. This is when she suddenly heard the sound of male voices as she passed a door. Without hesitation, following her impulse, she knocked quickly on the door and immediately opened it.  
Two men were standing in the room she had entered, and turned around to look at her. That office was much more decorated than the previous one: gold or platinum records on the walls, posters and photographs of artists and concerts, ripped open cardboard boxes pouring out a variety of mostly ugly gadgets - this could only be the office of a talent manager. Stepping in without waiting and walking towards the older of the two men present, whose slightly paunchy figure seemed to indicate that he was not himself an artist, Galatea confidently held out her hand:  
"Hello, I am Galatée. I believe we have an appointment now regarding M. Jang Jun-Ki´s live performance in two days. I have here a copy of his signed contract, and all the documents necessary to proceed to the payment of his dues."  
It was a bluff, but she had obviously struck lucky. In a decent, albeit very slow English, the man replied: "Yes, that is right. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Please let me introduce you to the man himself, whom I believe still needs to make a décision." And he gestured toward the sofa, from where a young man was watching whom Galatea recognized as the one whose picture adorned the models down by the elevators. Turning to him, she stretched her hand frankly out, breaking into one of those dazzling smiles that had men fall at her feet: "Hi, nice meeting you! I apologize for barging in like this, but I need this done as quickly as possible." As her hand touched the young man’s, she looked at him more carefully, trying to gauge his mindset – but, weirdly, it was his appearance that troubled her. At twenty-eight, Jang Jun-Ki was in his blooming prime for a Korean star – quite in the literal sense for a man who was part of the handful of artists called "flower boys" by the Asian media. Tall, naturally thin with lean muscles, he had one of those faces that inspire manga artists: very long slit eyes, high cheekbones, upper part of the face significantly wider than the bottom part, pointed chin, small mouth that however opened on a wide and bright smile with impossibly perfect teeth. His sophisticated haircut was versatile enough to allow long curls for a romantic look, dynamic volumes with help of some gel and a blow dryer, or as now a more "artisty" look (dare we call it grunge? or perhaps traditional Asian, in the fashion of historical films on the Jeosong imperial era?) with the upper part tied in a high ponytail or a bun at the back of the head. "A fine specimen of metrosexual in its natural habitat," Galatea thought derisively. The term "manga pretty" seemed to have been created for this boy.  
"You see," the manager intervened, "Mr. Jang Jun-Ki has a number of commitments that he needs to attend to in the coming days, so we don’t think that he has time to perform at a private party like the one we’re discussing, unfortunately."  
"What type of commitments? Perhaps we can combine a few, or perhaps I can help rescheduling some of them to a later date?" Galatea answered. She had come prepared for a fight, and was not ready to concede defeat. She cast a glance at her phone, which was vibrating in her hand: her boss was trying to reach her, probably to ask her a question related to the deal. She had no time to waste, so she opted for the hard line: "May I also say: the fee that you would have to pay to cancel the contract with M. Manlaijav may not be very high, but shall I remind you that he is a Ministry in Mongolia with extensive outreach in the media? I know that M. Jang Jun-Ki has a strong fan base in Mongolia, and it is my understanding that M. Manlaijav would be extremely disappointed if M. Jang Jun-Ki didn’t honor his engagement… Please, is there any way we could make this concert possible? I am willing to consider shortening the length of the concert, for example. Or, again, perhaps I can help you some way or other manage your other commitments?"  
Jang Jun-Ki and his manager looked at each other. A few sentences were exchanged in Korean. Judging by their attitudes, it was clear that the young man was positively inclined and argued in favor of Galatea, while his manager was showing some reluctance. In the end, Jang Jun-Ki turned to Galatea and, in perfect English, said:  
"I am willing to do the concert, under one condition: you will help me today fulfill one of the commitments I have for this week."  
"Well, I am very busy today, but what type of commitment are we talking about? And how can I help?" Galatea asked. She was inwardly praying that it was something that could be done at night, or very quickly. Very very quickly.  
"What are your commitments today, see if we can work around them?"  
"Well, I have business meetings I need to attend to, all day. Oh, and before that I have to go buy a birthday present for the very girl you will be giving a concert for! Shoot, I almost forgot!"  
"Well then, let’s go and do that. I’ll tell you what my project is about on the way."  
Jang Jun-Ki stood up. Clearly, the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. Galatea had just enough time to get his signature where she needed it, and they were gone. Once outside, they were joined by a small team carrying cameras and microphones – four people in total, including a little woman who rushed to Galatea to pat her face with a powdered sponge. Galatea leapt back, taken aback, while Jun-Ki jumped into a white van parked at the curb, immediately followed by his team: "Come on, Galatea, jump in!" he called. "Oh yeah?" Galatea replied, suddenly rebellious. "And where to, if I may ask?"  
"Don’t you need to do some shopping? If it’s for a Ministry’s daughter, then there is only one place to go: the Galleria in Gangnam district. Let’s go!" Intrigued, and her sense of adventure suddenly awakened, Galatea climbed into the van.  
Jun-Ki was very proud of his idea: he had recently been asked by Yahoo Korea to produce a series of short videos showing him trying to fulfill challenges suggested by his fans. The idea was original and it had been fun to make the first few episodes, which invited him to distribute ten of his own CDs on the street, or go outside a high school and kiss five girls kissing on the cheek - only five, no more, therein laid the real challenge! But the seventh and final challenge left him uninspired, and he had merely pushed back the time to get to work. The deadline was now here, and this charming and determined girl had burst in at just the right time...  
"So here is the deal: I need to convince a foreigner who doesn’t know me that I am a true star by demonstrating my talent to her. The challenge will be met if she demonstrates one way or another, that she believes me. We will document this on a video that will be published on Youtube as part of a promotional event. Should be fun, shouldn’t it?"  
"Oh yeah, a lot of fun if what you need to do is convince me through a demo in a shopping mall. Really looking forward to it!" Galatea said sarcastically. She had just received a new message from her boss, and evidently things were not going as well as they ought to have. Quick, she had to get rid of this double chore and run to her meeting.  
Jun-Ki was looking at her from the corner of his eye, perplexed: "What, you don’t think this will be fun? I picked you because you looked like someone who had a little humor, so don’t disappoint me now!" Galatea gave him a grim look: "Yeah, well, doesn’t it look like I’m having a ton of fun right now?" Jun-Ki lifted his eyebrows: this was different. Because of his fame, most of the girls he met - fans aside, with whom hysteria usually was the common behavioral denominator - treated him either with deference or with shyness. With his friends and male staff, he was usually the one who made fun of others, bigmouth as he was with his charming self-confidence and killer smile. Strange woman - but soon she would realize that spending time with him was a privilege, a privilege for which millions of people - well, millions of girls to be exact - were willing to pay a lot.  
After a few minutes, the van dropped them at the entrance to the famous Galleria, the most luxurious shopping center in Korea. Standing in front of the list of stores at the entrance of the building, Galatea was fully absorbed, skimming the long list of stores and trying to memorize the relative location of the Vuitton, Chanel and Hermes boutiques on the map, when a loud "Hey!" screamed in her left ear made her jump. She turned to Jun-Ki, prepared to bluntly berate him, but glimpsed the video team behind him. They had obviously started filming - and who knows what they would do with the materials collected? Better keep a low profile: "Yes?"  
"Hi, miss, I am Jang Jun-Ki, do you recognize me? I am pretty famous in Asia, are you Asian?"  
With a mischievous gleam in her eyes - after all, it wasn’t forbidden to be a little witty, especially if it allowed her to put a few roadblocks in his way - Galatea replied: "Well, my dad is Indian, my mother Greek, and I was born and raised in France. I guess that makes me one third Asian? Still, I absolutely do not recognize you, Sir, sorry…" Jun-Ki took a breath and was about to answer when she went on: "Oh wait, maybe I do recognize you… Would you perhaps be… the guy in this commercial for ramen soup that’s everywhere on TV?" Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked into the mall, smirking. Unabashed, Jun-Ki followed in her footsteps, pursuing the conversation: "Well, not quite, but almost. My most recent TV commercial was for a brand of winter sports clothing. Perhaps, you’ve seen it? It’s called Ferrino, it’s Italian." As Galatea didn’t react and kept walking towards the escalators, he continued: "And the former one was for a brand of cosmetics… Oh, right here, look!" They were in the middle of the space on the ground floor dedicated to the displays of various international brands of cosmetics. Galatea's eyes followed the direction pointed Jun-Ki, and indeed: from the bright advertising screen that bordered one of the closest stalls, Jun-Ki was smiling at her naughtily, pink shirt and cream silk scarf, leaning against a fuchsia convertible, a tube of mascara in his hand. Galatea stopped short, and burst out laughing. Turning to Jun-Ki, her glee doubled when she saw his slightly vexed look. Between two hiccups, she gasped: "I think you would have proved your point, man… if only I could be sure it is a guy I see on this picture!"  
"Ahjumma, whether I’m a man or a woman is not the point here! You have to admit that this is me on the picture – and you can’t deny that I am very pretty on top of that. Seriously, have you ever seen anyone that good looking?"  
"Ok, so I guess you are a model then. And is that why you go and pick up girls at the entrance of the mall? Because you’re afraid they won’t recognize you’re a guy when they see this picture, and need to convince them?"  
"Ah, ah, very funny. I guess you also need a demo of some of my other talents then."  
"All right." Galatea replied, feeling charitable."But let’s do that a bit later. I need to get moving." A moment later, they entered the Chanel store and Galatea started reviewing her options. Improbably priced ski suits retained her attention for a moment: who on earth could afford to invest such an amount in an outfit, white to top it all, made for the practice of such a physical sport? She finally set for a bag, gloves and a scarf, having in mind the with white fur hat worn by the girl in the picture she’d seen, and was about to pay when she heard the sound of an electric guitar in her back. At first she thought it was only the store’s music player, but when a beautiful male voice started singing, she turned around: Jun-Ki looked straight at her and went on with his pretty song – of which she didn’t understand a word, but which he interpreted with undeniable grace. The three shop attendants were also watching the show, clearly charmed, and a few people had stopped and grouped themselves at the entrance of the store while the video team revolved around them, filming.  
A moment later, however, the small group had grown, swollen to a point where it could almost be called a crowd, and a moment later still, shouts could be heard - some at a distance, followed by the sound of hurried steps, others nearby. The group gathered at the entrance of the store was getting denser, its mass darker, the pressure greater - to the breaking point: suddenly, the crowd poured into the small shop, and it was chaos. Galatea had of course attended concerts and other public events involving large crowds and partly uncontrolled collective enthusiasm, but this time was different: she was not part of the crowd in question, and the degree of tension, of hysteria even, was without proportion to anything she had ever seen. Distraught, she was about to dive under the nearest display when a hand grabbed hers and pulled her toward the exit. The man was wearing a cap but she recognized Jun-Ki’s gray hoodie and followed him. Once outside, they started to run, zigzagging to avoid people coming their way. A turn to the right, another to the left, and they’d fallen back to a satisfactory anonymity. At once, the fugitives laughed: "Phew, I realize now that you live a risky life!" Galatea exclaimed breathlessly, pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her boss had just sent her a message, and as she read it her good mood vanished at once: "Oh, you must be kidding me! My boss tells me the Ministry says his daughter would love a Chanel ski suit – and because she’s the same size as me, he thinks I should pick it up as a present. Can you believe it? Now we have to go back to the Chanel store…" She could have wept with rage.  
"That is fine – we need to get back to the video crew anyway. And capture your reaction to that unexpected event!" Jun-Ki added with a wink. But Galatea was in no mood to joke. Once again, she was a puppet, a toy in the hands of these men in suits who didn’t give her the consideration she deserved. They returned to the store, now empty again, where Jun-Ki insisted they finish the video while she tried on the ski suits. He had grabbed the camera and playfully pretended to break into the dressing room. Livid and feeling uncooperative, Galatea pushed the camera away and was about to close the door to Jun-Ki’s face when a detail grabbed her attention: clearly visible on the side of the device, a small gray lion head on a black background was embedded in the red plastic. Yes, it looked like a little medal that would have been melted there permanently. But why was this symbol so familiar?  
When Galatea came out of the dressing room to look at herself in the mirror – the ski suit managed the feat of being both incredibly comfortable and the sexiest she had ever worn - Jun-Ki came to take her by the shoulders, pinning her against the mirror, and then asked to her face as the camera came nearer for a close-up: "Just admit it, ahjumma: you are now wearing this suit because you want to protect yourself against my incredibly attractive star power, am I right, or am I right?"  
Planting her eyes in his, green stare against black stare, Galatea said: "Oh, I do believe that you are a star all right. As for incredibly attractive on the other hand, haven’t seen any of that personally, sorry!" Moving away, she added: "And by the way, what does this “ahjumma” name that you keep calling me even mean?" Jun-Ki looked defiantly at her and raised his eyebrows: "Ahjumma? It is the polite way of addressing an older woman in Korean. "Older lady" – pretty appropriate in your case, what do you think?"  
Taking a deep breath, Galatea replied with dignity: "I will see you at the concert in two days. Good-bye for now." And, turning her back to him, she went back into the dressing room.  
*****  
At the same time, but on the other side of the planet, Xavière was struggling against the torpor pervading her mind as the end of the day was approaching. The Intel Summit in San Diego was one of the most important conferences of the year in the tech industry, and she’d learned a lot the first two times she’d attended it. The conference was a great way to hear about the latest innovations in the field of information technology: what were the most promising tech startups, the most promising investment areas. But the novelty had eroded, and this year she was mostly bored, bored with almost as much intensity as in her everyday life - as she formulated it to herself with humor. The most exciting part of the conference, not subtly dubbed "speed-dating" in that it consisted of a marathon, or a ballet, of ten minutes meetings between entrepreneurs and investors, was now in full swing. The ballroom of the hotel was dotted with hundreds of small tables, each topped with a big black number. Every ten minutes, a bell rang and everyone looked at their agenda, looking for the number of the table where their next appointment would be taking place. It was tiring, but overall interesting enough to keep her awake.  
Xavière had just come out of a discussion with the creators of an organ preservation technology that had the potential to revolutionize the field of organ transplants, allowing the preservation of kidneys, or other organs of large dimension, for months or years in a row. Her next appointment was with an entrepreneur developing a 3D printer - the latest trend, and an area in which General Electric was preparing to invest. Taking advantage of an empty slot between these two "dates", Xavière opened the Facebook application on her phone to write a message to Galatea, who immediately replied:  
Xavière: "Am at a venture capital conference, full of arrogant investors in stiff suits and filthy entrepreneurs in flip-flops. Classy. Just got hit on by a Swiss investor."  
Galatea: "Do what I do, just like in the movie "The Names of Love": I take the worst ones, the most conservative ones, I let them flirt with me, and then I try to convert them – left-wing proselytism with panties-based blackmailing. Unattainable carrot of course, but prominently shown at the end of a stick. I experiment, we'll see if it works and if I convert anyone."  
Xavière: "Yeah, you're a modern evangelist monk, sort of. In my case I don’t know if I see them as advocates of free-market capitalism at all. They are either innovators, or guys who make daring bets to finance innovation. I see it in a rather positive light – the march of progress, if you want. And I must say that the fact that a guy has different ideas from me has never been a limiting factor to my attraction to him - quite the opposite, actually..."  
A little later, the speed-dating session over, Xavière sighed as she realized she had still to endure a presentation in the great conference room. Then it would be time for dinner, which this year anyway promised to be exceptional given that the conference organizers had booked the pontoon of a nearby aircraft carrier. What was the ship’s name again? Having found a chair in the great room, she scanned the program as, on the stage, the last presentation was announced, punctuated with loud music and dramatic light effects. As the audience counted a thousand people or so, that’s what it took to gather everyone’s attention - at least for a while. Two armchairs had been arranged symmetrically in the center of the stage, and the Intel’s General Manager took the stage to introduce the two protagonists to be engaged in the "fireside chat" that was on the agenda. The first one was no surprise, a journalist from Forbes Magazine named Kerry Dolan; the second participant was meanwhile introduced in the following terms:  
"Kerry Dolan will be conducting a conversation tonight with Ashish R. Lohranas. He is the founder of the Simba Corporation. Ashish is, to say the least, passionate about entrepreneurship: he started his very first IT technology company at, get this, the tender age of fifteen years old. Since then he has successfully driven the growth of Simba to become a global multi-sector conglomerate with more than 7,000 employees in 26 countries worldwide. Please join me in welcoming to the stage Kerry Dolan and Ashish Lohranas!"  
Then, a woman of a certain age, looking a little dull, made her entrance, followed by a man of medium height sporting a black jacket and washed out jeans, clearly of Indian origin, and surprisingly young - the "keynote speakers" at such conferences were usually men well over fifty years old, but this one seemed to have just turned thirty. Once they were both seated, Kerry, the journalist, began:  
"Well, good evening, everyone. I’d like to say that, in my nearly two decades at Forbes Magazine I’ve had the opportunity to interview probably hundreds of CEOs and entrepreneurs, but Ashish is the first entrepreneur I’ve interviewed who is also a survivor of the genocide in Rwanda. Ashish, you have a really unique and heartbreaking personal story. Talk to us a little bit about your origins…"  
Upon these words, Xavière pricked up her ears. A young keynote speaker, Indian-born but with an African history (and invited to an American conference), survivor of a genocide in which France had been involved, and entrepreneur at fifteen? Now that was original, and interesting...  
Having thanked the journalist and the audience, Ashish had started:  
"My family left India in 1890 and sailed for fourty-five days, purely looking for trading opportunities, and my father’s family ended up in Uganda. In 1920, similarly, my mother’s family left India and ended up in Tanzania. After they got married, mu parents lived in Kenya for a bit, then moved back to Uganda. In 1972, the Idi Amin saga took place in Uganda so my parents got kicked out of the country and moved to England. They lost everything they had, so my father worked in the Ford factory, my mother worked in another factory, they built up a little bit of capital and setup a small business, built up a little more capital and bought a small home. But in 1993, they wanted to come back home, they wanted to come back to Africa, so we ended up selling our business and our home, and moving to Rwanda. Nine months later, my parents, my sister and I were refugees during the genocide in Rwanda, and lost everything my parents had built up from 1972 to 1993. My father died shortly thereafter."  
Wow, now that was not banal, and even less boring! Xavière was fascinated, tense in anticipation of the rest of the story to come. The young man spoke clearly and composedly: one could feel that he was a little nervous, but the way he delivered his story gave the impression of a tale, a tale he would have told one evening by the fire to an audience of fascinated children. At the request of the journalist, he continued:  
"When we left Rwanda and came to Uganda, having lost everything, I was a teenager and could understand what was happening, see what my family had been through, and that lots of people were avoiding my family, afraid that they would ask them for money or a favor. So I took a 5,000$ loan, from three different people, and started flying to Dubai, filling my suitcase with motherboards and other computer parts, and selling them in a little shop back in Uganda. All this during my summer vacation."  
As Ashish kept explaining how he’d come up with this idea, and how his parents had allowed him to pursue his operations instead of returning to school once autumn had arrived, Xavière really looked at him for first time. She was too far from the stage to see him clearly, but a close-up of his face was displayed on two giant screens on either side of the stage. "Not bad... cute, even..." she mused. "The nose is a little long, but otherwise nothing to change. Beautiful voice, beautiful piercing eyes. And what a lovely laughter - friendly and youthful..."  
Ashish was now explaining how he’d grown his business by replicating the same model in other African countries and expanding into other sectors through partnerships in these countries. As he spoke, it seemed increasingly clear to Xavière that the key to his success lay in the stubbornness of this young man, probably born of the difficult situation in which he had seen his family: where many local entrepreneurs who’d likely had the same idea had probably considered themselves satisfied with the relative wealthiness procured by their local activity, Ashish had obviously been consistently striving to grow his business. "A hyperactive insecure personnality – I bet that guy lives in fear of losing everything again, and spends his life running to avoid that." Xavière thought. Pop psychology, for sure, but what the heck? One could have a little fun. By comparison, Xavière felt suddenly so modest, so comfortable: of course, she had been brilliantly admitted into, and was a graduate of several of the very best French grandes ecoles; of course, she had a nice career where title and salary followed an exponentially upward slope; but how that life seemed flat compared with that of this man, who was probably her age!  
The journalist was just confirming it: "In case you haven’t made the math yet, Ashish is only thirty-two, and he is the first African to make the Forbes “40 under 40” list.""Oh come on!" Xavière thought - she only had a very remote interest in this kind of rankings, having no desire to get rich herself and preferring intellectual papers like The Economist to slightly vulgar magazines such as Forbes, but she knew that the very exclusive "40 under 40" ranking, which lists the 40 business leaders under 40 judged most promising in the world by the magazine, was a very pretty star to hang to one’s resume.  
For the rest, the cute Ashish was clearly here to promote himself and his company, and more generally to pose as representative and promoter of Africa in front of an American audience which he knew tends to consider this continent as a single homogenous entity, whose main common denominator is being corrupt. His argumentation was by the way rather good, though a little caricatural when it came to praising Nigeria as a business paradise.  
Xavière pulled out her phone and quickly researched Ashish’s profile made by Forbes, posting the link on her Facebook page with the comment: "Listening to this guy at a conference. Quite impressed!" That would probably interest her friends, especially Martin, Samia and Jerome who worked so often in Africa.  
On the stage, Ashish was proceeding with his pro-African propaganda: "Simba in a local dialect means « lion », our logo is the African lion. My little joke, which a lot of people do no appreciate, is that the Indian tiger and the Chinese dragon have had their days, it’s now the African lion’s turn." Xavière smiled: nice slogan, which would probably stick in more than one mind. She turned her gaze to the screen on which the logo in question was being displayed, and let out a little involuntary cry: the lion of the Simba Corporation just evoked by Ashish likened in its every detail Lena’s medallion.  
*****  
To get to the dinner, the conference participants had to travel a short distance along the waterfront, from the conference center to the aircraft carrier, and had thus been advised to wear comfortable shoes. In the great hall, Xavière was hesitating: she didn’t want to give up the beautiful and expensive burgundy Tory Burch heels that made her legs so pretty, but she didn’t have any intention to damage them on the uneven cobblestones the docks... She finally decided to take her car, and had just started off towards the parking lot when a large group came from the opposite direction, apparently en route for dinner. She would have crossed their way without a second thought, when a pair of bright black eyes met and held hers. She felt as if her legs were giving way beneath her, and suddenly she was breathless: this look belonged to none other than the handsome Ashish, and it was clearly not an indifferent look.  
Xavière was a pretty girl, a very pretty girl even, and was therefore used to attract male attention. She also had enough life experience to have felt troubled many times by the stare of a man who attracted her. This time, however, was special - special because of the intensity of her emotion, special because she had been unaware until that very moment that this man attracted her physically, special because of the force with which their eyes had seemed to collide. A full second and three steps later, she was still staggering. There was no need to think, no need to make a decision: she turned around and followed Ashish.  
While walking, she wondered: but what is he doing there? A guy like this has better things to do than attend a conference dinner, randomly talking to more or less interesting people? She had not imagined for a moment that he might be present. To be honest, she had not considered at all that she would ever see this man again after his afternoon speech. But now, suddenly, here he was, very real before her with his slightly too trendy black and white leather jacket and tight jeans. And she didn’t know what to do. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to follow him. "Now, there's an idea: to follow. I follow..." she thought. She recovered however enough of her spirits to start a conversation with the German man who was walking beside her, a representative of Siemens Capital with whom she exchanged the usual small talk during the short journey that led them to the aircraft carrier. Along the way, she tried to get closer to Ashish, but it wasn’t easy and one or two people still separated them when everyone reached the big boat. She had never been the kind who approaches men, probably because men generally approached her first, and was baffled by the realization that she was literally running after Ashish. What in the world would she do if she caught up with him? Would she find the courage to talk to him? Having herself been a speaker at a number of conferences, she remembered with some distaste those men who tried to leverage her speech to come forward and asked obviously artificial questions. She had always hated groupie-style behaviors and didn’t really see herself sucking up to the man – with the implicit goal to hit on him at that.  
Her dilemma found itself however resolved when, having randomly climbed one of the small iron spiral staircases by which the dock could be reached, she found herself almost nose to nose with Ashish. Or more accurately a few steps away, but close enough for him to see her at the same time she saw him. Both hesitated an instant, took one step towards each other, then Xavière took the plunge:  
"Hey, I really enjoyed your talk earlier today, thank you so much!"  
"Oh, thank you." he replied. He held out his hand, capturing her with his intense gaze: "I am Ashish." When his hand enveloped hers, Xavière thought she would liquefy on the spot. More precisely, her excitement was so intense, rose so fast and so strong in her gut that she thought she’d have an orgasm right there, while another part of her, below, embarrassingly melted - quite literally. What was happening to her? Then she noticed that he was wearing a little too much perfume, and the thought made her smile inwardly: he was not perfect, after all.  
"And I am Xavière." she managed to answer after a moment, pointing to the badge with her name on it that all attendees to the conference were wearing. If she was generally glad to have an unusual name, in that moment she would have given a lot to have one of those names that don’t require any explanation, one of those names that are easy to spell and remember...  
They exchanged the standard platitudes - where she came from, where she currently lived, her profession, if she enjoyed the conference and San Diego. Ashish explained in turn that he was leaving for San Francisco the next day, that it was his first time in San Diego and that he liked the city a lot: "I definitely plan to go for a run along the beach tomorrow morning!" Did he expect her to ask if she could come with him? Xavière felt, in both his comments on his trip to San Francisco and on his running plan in San Diego, the breath of a door left open, calling for a reaction on her part - but maybe she was only confusing her wishes with reality, so she didn’t answer.  
At this point, a conferencee came to mingle in their conversation and congratulate Ashish, who kindly thanked him before turning back to Xavière: "I was serious earlier," she said sincerily. "I was impressed not only by your story, but also by the way you delivered it – it felt like a saga, or a poem perhaps. Have you been taking public speaking classes by any chance?"Ashish seemed pleasantly surprised and replied: "You know what, I haven’t, but thank you for saying this. I actually feel like I have much room for improvement, so it feels good to hear this." Again, he enveloped her with his intense gaze, all his attention focused on her, making her shudder from head to toe when the conferencee chipped in again in their conversation, overwhelming Ashish with compliments: "But the contents, the lessons you shared, that was really the best thing!" Xavière took a step away, a slightly mocking smile pulling her full lips: "Yeah - one has to admit that the contents were way more sexy than anything else we had to listen to today!" Ashish threw back his head and burst into the warm and youthful laughter Xavière had noticed earlier, clearly charmed, and followed her. Unfortunately, the intruder also followed suit and, as all three walked down the deck towards one of the fighters that were exposed there, Xavière pulled away gradually.  
What was she doing exactly? Was she a groupie? Or the kind of girl who chases after a man? Besides the fact that she had a partner and a daughter at home - if Galatea, Lena and herself often and freely talked about their fantasies and the men who fed them, and if her position on the subject of infidelity was theoretically rather liberal, she had never cheated on Karl - or indeed on any of the boyfriends who had preceded him. Not that the opportunity had never presented itself, or that she saw an insurmountable prohibition in the act itself: the temptation simply had never been great enough. Another way to put it would be to say that she was just too lazy: too many practical complications, too many complex ponderings in perspective, she was happy enough in the position of arbitrator of the convoluted issues submitted to her by Galatea or Lena.  
A moment later, she looked around her: Ashish was nowhere in sight. She wandered a moment from buffet to buffet, pretending to compose herself a plate but relentlessly looking for him - without success. "Well, too bad for me. Once again, I wasn’t motivated enough, but what to do? I didn’t see myself starting a boot-licking competition with this fool, anyway." She sat down at one of the large round tables scattered on the deck, and joined in the conversation of the people who were already sitting there.  
*****  
In Seoul, Galatea was pouring herself a cup of tea, taking advantage of a break in the negotiations, when her phone vibrated in her pocket: "Hm, new private Facebook message..." She opened the application, and a message from Xavière appeared: "This is it, my friend, I have found my hare... And it's a huge one, you have no idea..."


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